Done with my human hamster walk on the treadmill, I went around the corner and saw Sassy on another treadmill, earbuds in, so I mimed weight-lifting at her. When I was done with that, I went back and asked, “You coolin down?”
She gave me the strangest look and nodded. I could guess she wanted to stay longer.
“I’m pretty much ready to go,” I said.
She nodded. She’d live at the gym if I let her, but I’m not inclined. Stavin off a bloated hippopotamus death doesn’t require hours and hours of exercise every night.
We got home and she said, “So I pushed ‘Fat Burn’ on the treadmill, like ‘What does this do?'”
“Oh yeah?”
“It forever inclines.”
“Oh.”
“As it speeds up.”
“OH!”
“Rapidly.”
“Oh my!”
“Yeah, so I was on seven incline at eleven pace, and I thought I was going to die.”
“Hadda turn it down a bit?”
“No! I had to push emergency stop! You came around the corner all, ‘You coolin down?’ and I was like, ‘If by coolin down, you mean gettin my life back, then yeah, I’m coolin down!'”
Some time ago, writer and blogger Luanne introduced me to the idea of liminality, particularly liminal spaces. This captured my attention because as an introvert and a Highly Sensitive Person I feel liminal spaces are important. I like the quiet of a vestibule before the roar of a crowd. I like to stop a moment and breathe or at least slow my pace.
I took this door picture on account of the mirrored doors. One shot, multiple doors and reflections of even more doors.
This photo is metaphorical for me. I was in a liminal space, literally, but figuratively, in my head as well. I was trying to make a choice in those few quiet moments. As choices go, I had so many things to consider. I found it funny to be in the center of ten doors, the mirrored ones asking me, “What do YOU want, Joey?”
Moments later, in my car, yet another liminal space, I’d talk to my husband and he would ask me, “What do YOU want, Joey?”
I made the photo black and white, because while some aspects are, a lot of the pros and cons are unknown. I think of them as gray areas which can be colored in as I go.
I made the choice and crossed the threshold, and I am once again grateful for liminal space.
Well wasn’t that a lovely break?
Didj’all miss my rants, my insights, or just my nonsense? Know what? Doesn’t matter. We both know I don’t pretend to care here on my Not A Nice Lady Blog.
I took eight days off from blogging, while my kids had nine off from school. I read some of you some of the time, the same way I still drove to school during that time. There weren’t too many cold, dark mornings and there were few late nights. I owned most of my days. In typical Joey fashion, I did some cleaning and reorganization, but I also had more time to sleep and snuggle, to read and watch shows. I always aim for balance.
catticus, lettin it all hang out
I had a peaceful Thanksgiving, breezy as ever. I love Thanksgiving. I’m especially fond of after Thanksgiving, when one can eat pumpkin pie for breakfast and cold, dry turkey sammiches for lunch — and that last day of turkey, when I make the noodles. Oh y’all, the noodle time, it is upon us!
noodles all up in my lap
On the Saturday after, I like to put up my tree. Putting up the tree is one of the happiest days of the year for me, and I treat it like a holiday. I went back to an artificial tree this year. Chose a slim model. Skinny trees make good sense when you live in a bungalow.
i’m no good at photographing these, either. this one’s in the dark
this one’s with the light on
this is with some horrible letters on the top of my screen. no idea. very bright.
I had my birthday yesterday, which added white-on-white cake to pumpkin pie.
look at all that glistening fat and sugar!
There are two more birthdays next week, adding even more cake. What a great time of year!
For stretchy pants.
the cake eater at 44, raw and unfiltered
I continue to age naturally, and hopefully with some grace. I started this at 40 but most of you weren’t reading me then. I hope to inspire others to embrace the whateverness they’re experiencing as time goes on. In my case, drying, crinkling, the appearance of old sun damage. I think “29 Forever” is lame as fuck. You’ll never hear me complain about lookin old. I am grateful for every bit of my age. It’s a sort of morbid gratitude, like my immune system is eight hundred years old but none of the diseases have killed me yet and my kids will all be old enough to remember me when I die, but still, it’s sincere gratitude.
When I got out of bed at 5:08 this morning and immediately wobbled into my bedroom wall and tangled with my curtains, I still looked out the window and thanked God for another day. And I get to live here, where it’s cold outside in November and the sun isn’t trying to kill me. How fortunate am I? SO fortunate!
crunchy leaves underfoot ftw
The weather this week is my ideal, lots of 50s and some rain expected. The Mister found us a woolly worm last week, and I collected him to see what he had to say about the upcoming winter. His bristles told me there will be no winter, Mary. Not a speck of black to be seen.
behold the lying woolly worm
So, how’ve you been? What’s been goin on? Got any predictions? Have you any CAKE?
This is just between us, between us blogging buddies, not for you to go blabbing to the whole world, okay?
I’m getting older every single day. It’s true.
Sorry not sorry, but so are you.
Soon, I will be forty-four.
Sassy’s always sayin she’s halfway to thirty. I’m always like, “I’m halfway to eighty-eight.”
Jeez, Kid.
I got my first birthday present today. From my mommy. I dunno what she’s halfway to without a piece of paper and a pen. I forget how old she is, but we’re both so old I’d need to borrow or carry, and I can’t math that shit in my head.
My mother just mumbled, Jeez, Kid.
Anyway, my mother sent me a sparkly. She loves me to the moon and back. Heart-heart. Gush-gush.
She also sent me holiday decorations. Boxes of home. Figuratively. Like the home we can never go back to? The kind of home we can smile at when we remove sweet memories from the box every year?
I am all about that, in case you didn’t know.
I’m a sucker for sentiment. Much of what I own has been gifted to or passed on to me. I love this about my world. I love how many people are still with me in spirit because of things I enjoy every day. Or maybe they’re still here, but they’re far and those things make them seem closer. It feels Intimate, Personal, Intentional.
As we head toward the season of giving, consider giving something of your own to someone who would adore it and think of you every time they see it or use it. This doesn’t work for every giver or every recipient and it may not work best during the holidays. But when done well, it’s a gift of immeasurable value. A real token of affection, a thought that truly counts.
It all started after I took the girls to school and went home to make myself some breakfast. I was cooking when I realized it was a good time to kill them all. There are some who would suggest I’ve been repressing this urge all along and I’m not in a position to argue. It does appear to be a pattern.
I commit mass murder every November. I never intend to, but it happens like clockwork. Perhaps one day I will come to accept this as part of the harvest.
I always start out doing something lazier, more passive, like trapping. Initially, I set out saucers of cooking oil with a bit of juice in the center. I have smothered countless numbers with this method. Of course, there are pets to contend with. Both Sadie and Catticus enjoy lapping up a saucer of oil laced with cranberry juice. Placing them out of the dog’s reach is one thing, but areas the cats can’t get to? Well, those spots are reserved for plants.
Time goes on, I grow weary of waging the slow battle, of scooping them from my coffee and waving them from my breakfast. It is at this moment I surrender to the urge. I grab my trusty swatter and I just WHACK! em. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
WHACK!
And WHACK!
On the cabinets and counters and ceilings WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! and I see you on the door frame WHACK!
“Die! Die! Die!” WHACK! “And tell your friends and family, ain’t nobody safe in here!” WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
The Mister WHACK! thinks the answer is to stop buying produce but WHACK! that is not a viable option WHACK! because we can’t all live on meat and chocolate WHACK! I’m not going to do anything crazy like refrigerate my tomatoes or chop down my apple trees WHACK! I’m not going to give up WHACK! bananas.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
They lay about 500 eggs at a time.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Satisfied with the body count, I sit down to a nice warm bowl of oatmeal with sliced apples and toast, all fruit fly-free.
Happy Friday Everyone! May your weekend be free from annoyance!
At first glance, this hardly interesting set of doors sits in what looks to be one of the many Art Deco limestone buildings peppering Indianapolis. But is it?
Research of address usually reveals origins, but with this building, I got shorted. Limited information includes being directed to an ad on page 22 from the 1958 Indianapolis Recorder:
“SAFELY INSURING INDIANAPOLIS FOR OVER 70 YEARS” If Your Home Is Worth Insuring For $8000 or more. You are Eligible For The “Home Owners Package Policy” House Insurance • Personal Property Insurance % Burglary & Theft Insurance • Personal Liability Complete Coverage in ONE POLICY For LESS MONEY GREGORY & APPEL INC. 120 E. VERMONT ST.
That company is still in business — at another location.
Of course, I’ve found no way to discern what building was located at 120 E Vermont in 1958.
A real estate site contends this building was erected in 1972 and lists no building materials. It does mention air conditioning.
I am providing a link to the Recorder because like me, some people enjoy old newspapers.
This page is the current link to my disappointment.
Yesterday morning I made two trips to two schools. I didn’t smell anything but my delicious coffee and the girls’ freshly-groomed scents.
Later though, I went downtown. I didn’t smell anything unusual until I got back in my car. I was headed north on Delaware when I caught a whiff of skunk. Then I was on Meridian when I caught another whiff. Again, miles later, round Fall Creek I smelled it once more. Each time, I tried to sniff super well to determine the direction of the odor.
It was faint. Just a hint off and on. But it followed me for miles!
“GOOD GOD! EXACTLY HOW MANY SKUNKS DIED IN THE CITY LAST NIGHT!?”
is it me?
*sniffed shoulders*
maybe i ran over a skunk? wouldn’t i notice? maybe a skunk climbed into my engine and died in search of warmth. omaword, maybe it’s that thing where you smell smells that aren’t there and this is the beginning of the end! no, no, that’s anxiety. maybe i drove through a skunk smell and it adhered to my tire?
When I got home, I smelled all my clothes as I removed them. My pets were happy to help. None of my clothes smelled of skunk. I even sniffed the bottoms of my shoes. Nope. Not a thing.
Hmm. Chock that up to peculiar, eh?
When The Mister came home, I asked him if I smelled like skunk. He sniffed me thoroughly and said No.
In the evening, I got back in my car to take Sassy to rehearsal. I smelled nothing. When The Mister returned from picking her up, he said my car smelled fine.
Oh well.
It was then I decided downtown had been infiltrated by skunks the night before. Even suburban skunks must have ventured into the city for a wild spray party. They were whoopin it up, pub crawlin and puffin on the skunk bud, takin selfies in the fountains. I bet they sang and and danced and bred like mad.
Skunkapalooza, The Mister said.
Unfortunately, due to daylight savings time, they all got run over before dawn. Poor dears never saw all those commuters comin.
I expect plenty of hysterical, tongue-in-cheek, punny comments on this post. Of course, it being a Tuesday and all, other possible comments include telling me something I’ve already written here or letting me know it’s skunk mating season in Indiana. It wouldn’t be the internet if someone didn’t yell at me for glorifying Pepe Le Pew, sexual harasser extraordinaire, or for joking about the death of animals, but no one ever tells me important shit, like Hey, there’s a typo in line 6!
Yes, I know skunks don’t have thumbs or smartphones, but have you seen this?
Oh, who am I kidding? Five ‘clock got me yawnin like whoa. As did six and seven and eight. It’s going to be another busy week.
I had a wonderful weekend and hope you all did, too. Mine was slow-paced and restorative. This time of year, I usually spend weekends south of the city or at the very least in local woods, but we haven’t had a warm and sunny weekend yet this season.
peculiar leaf wants to be noticed
Will there be sunny days in this autumn? Perhaps it’s a peculiar kind of fall. Perhaps it just isn’t meant to be. “… turn, turn, turn …”
Before I go out into the world to do my day, I thought I’d share with you my own aspirations for this week: May we find joys in the peculiar.
I was going to skip the prompt today. I fall into Linda’s group of people, how did she say? … “may end up leading people into touchy subjects.”
I don’t write much about veteran-type things. I come from a family that served, married a Marine, went with him when the Army sent him to Georgia, and waited for him while he was in hells I’ll never know.
I have unlimited opinions and complicated emotions about all of it, but about one thing, I am certain.
I am grateful to live in a country where incredible people are moved to serve.
I’m in the prompt because today, out in public, someone left this on my car, we assume because Bonnie Blue sports USMC plates. A random act of kindness on Veteran’s Day.
The Mister photographed the card, inside and out.
That someone would take time to write and deliver such a thoughtful token of appreciation is such a wonderful, moving gesture.
joeyfullystated 
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